I'm Sorry
by TheYmp
Summary: Sam's sorry. Sam/Kevin. Angst. Canon character death. Set season nine. Written for the 2015 SPNSpringFling on LiveJournal.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.**

 _ **Sam's sorry.**_ **Sam/Kevin. Angst. Canon character death. Set season nine.**

 **Written for the 2015 SPNSpringFling on LiveJournal. Balder12's prompt was: _Sam/Kevin (gen or slash) & "blood, mirror, water"_.**

~#~

 **I'm Sorry**

 ** _"And I'm not sorry for, for the things I've done. And I'm not looking for just anyone" - 'I'm Not Sorry', Morrissey_**

Sam had only darted into the bathroom to grab a spare toothbrush to replace the one in his overnight bag (which Dean had decided to co-opt as an emergency gun cleaner, something to do with how leaving guts in the workings of a pistol makes it unreliable). He came to an abrupt, almost painful, stop due to the sudden change in momentum when he realized the room was already occupied. Silently he stood and watched as Kevin stood and watched himself in the mirror.

Sam couldn't help making a physical assessment. The young man had filled out in his time with them, much less boyish than when their paths had first crossed. The dark lines under the hardened eyes emphasized the sharpness of his cheek bones and made him seem much older than his current years.

He appeared tired and maybe a little gaunt, but the look seemed to work for him. Sam wondered how long he would be able to say the same about himself – recent events had proved that he was no spring chicken. While he still considered himself to be in the prime of his life, honestly some days he could barely drag himself out of bed when the cold seemed to bite into the site of all his old hunting injuries. There were a lot of scars, most of them physical.

Kevin, meanwhile, was still gazing sightlessly into the mirror, seemingly without noticing Sam at all. _But now, of course, that's totally awkward_ , Sam chastised himself. _Why didn't I just said "sorry", retrieve the damn toothbrush and go on my way?_

They seemed to sigh in tandem, a synchronous release, when Kevin turned the faucet and it was as if time and emotion, and not just water, started to flow again.

Despite this, Sam still jolted in surprise when Kevin finally spoke. "Hello, Sam."

Before Sam could reply, Kevin leaned forward and started to brush his teeth; with Sam's toothbrush no less. Sam just stared, for some reason unable to make himself speak.

Kevin paused in his brushing. "Was there something you wanted?" he asked mildly.

"N-no, sorry," stuttered Sam, before dashing from the room.

~#~

It was a couple of days later that Sam again caught Kevin standing lost in his own thoughts. He'd noticed that Kevin seemed to do that a lot in recent weeks. The young man still looked tired and the smudges under his eyes spoke volumes about the poor quality of his sleep.

Ironically, Sam felt the bruised color brought out the man's eyes.

Kevin was gazing in the dim reflection of one of the multitude of display cases that were dotted around the Men of Letters' bunker.

Without meaning to, and without being consciously aware of his intentions, Sam found himself reaching out his arm and placing one large hand on the man's thin shoulders. Something strangely pleasant twisted within him and he was almost overwhelmed by a proprietary feeling that rushed through him only to become another, far baser, desire.

Kevin jumped at the touch, barely suppressing a yelp of fear.

"Sorry," said Sam, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat.

"Sam, you scared me," said Kevin in a gently accusative tone, dropping his eyes away.

Sam felt inexplicably awkward; _I'm too big and stupid and I just break everything I touch_ , he thought.

"Admiring yourself?" he blurted, while gesturing at the glass. Inwardly he cringed and wished he'd walked away instead.

Kevin blushed and gave momentary eye contact, before his eyes darted away again like startled deer. "It's silly, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of my reflection out of the corner of my eye and..."

"You don't recognize yourself," finished Sam.

"I did say it was silly."

"No, I get it."

Kevin nodded, studying him with a long, considered gaze. "Yeah, I think maybe you do."

"I'm sorry," repeated Sam, feeling flustered, "I'll leave you to it." His legs shook- _It's because of the trials_ , he insisted to himself-as he tried to force himself to walk, not run, from the room.

~#~

Sam was astounded that, against all the odds, he actually seemed to be thriving instead of dying.

But-despite how much better he'd been feeling recently-he still obviously wasn't completely well, as the increasingly frequent periods of forgetfulness and black-outs attested. It was disconcerting to keep finding himself in a different place, all too often it was in front of the reproachful watch of his brother.

Intellectually he knew that someone ought to keep an eye on him in case he did something dangerous, but Dean had procrastinated about going solo on a hunt and had hovered over him until Sam had felt like screaming. _I'm not some delicate fragile thing that was going to just break... except... that's not exactly true anymore, is it?_

Nevertheless, it was with a palpable sense of relief that he closed the front door of the bunker behind Dean, after practically shoving his brother through it to get rid of him.

It was still reassuring that he had some company, even though, to his mortification, it seemed like Kevin wasn't exactly pleased to have him around. Sam couldn't quite pin down the reason that that thought twisted his stomach, seeming to fill him with a stabbing sense of emptiness and despair.

"I thought you'd have gone with Dean," interrupted Kevin, when Sam had tried to strike up conversation for the tenth time in as many minutes. If it was said with the tone of one irritated by him breathing then Sam wasn't going to dwell on it and instead he focused on the joy of finally getting an answer.

"We, er, decided that it was probably best for me to stay here while I'm still getting better," explained Sam

Kevin snorted, still poring over the tablet, absently taping the side of his head with the end of his pencil, lost in thought. " _We?_ Don't you mean _Dean?_ "

Sam colored. "Yeah, but I guess it suits me not to go too."

Kevin looked up from his work with a rare, wry smile. "Not often we get a win-win situation in our world, huh? Why didn't you want to go? I thought you Winchesters were gung-ho for that sort of thing."

It was Sam's turn to snort. "Yeah, you say that like I had any choice in this life. I was _born_ into this-" he waved his hands in a 'spooky' gesture, "-it's 'my destiny'. I thought _you'd_ get that, if anyone would."

For a moment, Kevin seemed to really look at him and it filled Sam with a heady, elated feeling.

"I guess we've got more in common that I thought," Kevin smiled, before turning back to his work.

~#~

Sam was unable to move.

It wasn't by any means the first time he'd been possessed so he couldn't help but feel that he should have been used to it by now.

Meg had made him feel slimy and dirty inside-and not in a nice way-and Lucifer had been so glorious and horrifying, and beyond overwhelming that Jimmy Novak's description of "like being chained to a comet" didn't even come close.

By contrast, being filled by Gadreel, once he'd decided he didn't care about discovery, was almost a two-way street. While there were short periods of numb nothingness, in the main Sam found he could sense the angel's thoughts and intentions - as weird and mixed-up and conflicted as they were.

So he was sure that he was mistaken; the note passed to Gadreel couldn't mean what it appeared to.

Despite no outward sign of emotion or spoken words, inside Sam was sobbing in pain and anger, begging and pleading for both mercy and forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," he screamed soundlessly, as the essence of everything that was supposed to be holy burned out the life and the soul and the eyes of the man before him.

Sam could only wish he'd had a chance to say all the things he never could and now never would.

~#~

One morning, months later, and Sam moved slightly, only a little disturbed by the ethereal sense of movement in his room.

On the cusp between sleep and wakefulness he buried himself back into the comfort of his twisted sheets as he felt quick, clever fingers stroke his hair out of his face. And oddly, the faint scent of coffee.

It wasn't much, but it was something and if Sam chose to just go with it for a while, then he wasn't sorry at all.

 ** _"And I'm not sorry for, for the things I've said" - 'I'm Not Sorry', Morrissey_**

(;,;)


End file.
